Joke
by cinnabari
Summary: Everyone has a unique sense of humor


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Watery light spills yellow across the bar. It's not enough to annoy your eyes, but you keep the goggles down anyway. People can't see someone's eyes, they get scared, and you like that. Fear tastes better than the shit in your dirty glass.

Laughter stabs into your solitude, makes you turn and look. Big slab of a man, skin like dough. A woman slinks away from him, face crumpled like she's swallowed something rotten. His laughter follows her like a malevolent puppy, but he turns around, comes right up to the bar beside you.

"Ah, no sense of humor." He's still laughing, shaking his head. Sees you watching, and transfers that grin to you. "She didn't like my joke," he explains.

You don't smile back, and Slab can't see your narrowed eyes. Probably wouldn't care if he did: you know the type. Big man, big mouth, big attitude. No fear, and that's fucking annoying. You grunt, and hope the conversation's over.

No such luck.

"Hey." He hunches closer, blows an alcohol wind across your face. "Got a joke for you, man - you don't look like some prissy bitch who's gonna get all offended."

You shrug, and look away from him. "Nah." 

He laughs, pleased with himself, and splays fat fingers on the bar too close to your own. "Awright, man. So there's this little white guy, and he's getting sent to Slam for the first time - "

You weren't little or white, but you remember your first time. Fresh out of juvie, getting your transfer in with the big boys. You thought you were such hot shit, with all that blood and bad rep behind you. Then came the first ride in a space ship, and the stale stink of the transport: cold bite of metal round your wrists, in your mouth, through your boots. Fear, from the guys with you, and you thought they were pussies. And then you got your first glimpse of Slam and your stomach tried to crawl out your throat. 

" - He has to share a cell with a big, black, bald dude with a mean look on his face." Pause, and Slab grins wider. "Like you, only blacker. Poor little fucker. So this cracker's shitting in his pants 'cuz he doesn't know what to say to this big mother in his cell - "

No cells in Slam, not really. Tunnels, like you're all rats, with holes in the sides. Big rats get the big holes. Little rats... well, little rats get big holes, too, but not the same kind. You were a little rat for exactly one week, till you got your hands on a shiv and stuck it into the guts of every big rat who'd taken a nibble. That earned you another first: a dive into the _real_ dark. Five-by-five, electric walls, and a silence that skull-fucked you.

" - An' the big fucker smiles at the little white guy like he's a pizza or something, and he asks, "Well, Boy. D'you want to be the Mama or the Papa?"

You lean back, prop an elbow on the bar. "Nah," you say, and the guy's mouth freezes mid-flap. "People don't say shit like that in Slam."

Slab blinks at you with wet marble eyes. "What? Man, it's a fucking joke, just let me fucking tell it, okay?"

"Gotta get it right," you murmur. "No one says, 'you wanna be the Mama or the Papa,' 'cuz that fucking wastes time. Lets 'em know where you are."

Slab's mouth works, wide lips rolling back and forth over square yellow teeth. You're starting to smell something under the booze, and your skin tingles. Oh yeah. That's better. You lean forward, put your face right up next to Slab's, and he smells even sweeter. "Know what they say in Slam?" you whisper. 

Solitary: where rats go when they've eaten too many of their own. Some rats - big or little - don't make it out again. You did, but you spent a month in the hospital afterwards while your skin grew back and the bones in your hands healed. By the time you remembered how to walk, you were a little rat in the tunnels again. Suck it up, suck them off, and make plans: life on your terms would cost you, but you could wait for it.

Slab waits, eyes rolled white as he tries to focus on your face. "So? What the fuck do they say in Slam, smartass? C'mon, man." His face quivers, trying to smile, trying to be tough.

"I. See. You." 

The next guy you killed never heard you coming. You sat back and watched while the little rats fought over the corpse, and you fingered your stolen Kools in their slick cellophane package. Twenty. Full pack. Enough to make sure you're gonna be a big enough rat that no one ever fucks with you again.

Sweat beads in Slab's hairline. "Your punch line sucks, man," he whispers, like there's a hole in his throat and the air's leaking out. "Doesn't make any _sense_."

"Sure it does. Slam's a big, dark place. People _hear_ you, you got a problem. People _see_ you, you're fucked." And you nudge the goggles up onto your forehead, and smile as Slab's eyes try to roll out of his head. Inhale, and you can taste his reaction. Never get tired of it. "The little guy never even sees the big guy, never even fuckin' hears him comin'. He's just sittin' there in the dark, scared shitless. And then there's this voice out of nowhere." Lean forward, and your lips brush his ear. "Just like this: _I see you._" You lean back, stretch your lips over your teeth. "Ain't that funny?"

Crack: sweet sound of breaking nerves. Slab staggers back, mouth flapping and silent. You smile and nod as he lurches away. Laugh, as he turns and runs. Guess he didn't like your joke. 

You wait two beats, and start after him. Station isn't as dark as Slam, but you bet your punchline will work here, too.


End file.
